


My lute be still for I have done.

by Onceuponadisneypotter



Series: Half a Century of Poetry [1]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Inspired by The Lover Complayneth The Unkindnes of His Love by Thomas Wyatt, Jaskier thinks that 'take you off my hands' means 'die', Jaskier's final song, Jaskier's internal monologue, M/M, brief mention of potential future death, brief mention of suicidal thoughts, but she is not physically present in this fic, jaskier and yennefer are sort of friends, neither is Geralt, no beta we die like renfri, post-mountain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-11
Updated: 2020-07-11
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:28:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25202479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Onceuponadisneypotter/pseuds/Onceuponadisneypotter
Summary: Three months after The Mountain, Jaskier is a one-day journey away from Oxenfurt. There, one night before he enters the city to become a professor, he writes and performs his final song.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Half a Century of Poetry [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1825762
Comments: 1
Kudos: 103





	My lute be still for I have done.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is inspired by the poem 'The Lover Complayneth The Unkindnes of His Love' by Thomas Wyatt. The poem is split up in pieces throughout the fic, but I will place the entire text of it in the endnotes.

Jaskier couldn’t perform. It had been  _ three damn months  _ and he still couldn’t perform. Oh sure, he tried, and he did manage to get through some songs without being hindered by sobs ripping their way up from the core of his heart. But he couldn’t  _ perform.  _ He couldn’t even get through the first few chords of  _ Toss a Coin _ without his throat closing up and forcing him to change to a different song before even opening his mouth to sing the first line. Sure, he had tried singing the very few songs in his repertoire that did  _ not  _ speak about the Witcher and his heroic deeds, but every single song somehow circled back to Geralt. Geralt, who had, in no uncertain terms, told him it was better if Jaskier were dead. _ If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands. _

He had attempted to sing  _ Fishmonger’s Daughter _ , but that only reminded him of their first meeting and Parvetta’s betrothal feast. Even the songs he had written for Countess de Stael were unplayable. He couldn’t fool himself. He  _ knew  _ that, even though the songs described the long soft hair and gorgeous eyes of a maid unaware of her own beauty, he was really describing a certain long-haired, yellow-eyed self-conscious Witcher. And even if he did manage to fool himself, the instrument he held was, on occasion, more than enough to make his heart break into even smaller pieces, if that was even possible. The lute was a physical reminder of their first adventure, of the compassion Geralt had shown even when his life was threatened. And yet Jaskier could not manage to part with it, could not even conceive of selling it. It was, after all, some sort of reminder that Geralt had, once, cared. Had, once, put Jaskier’s life above his own. Once.

It had been three months.  _ Three damn months  _ and Jaskier felt pathetic. He had hoped, dreamed, wished, prayed that by now he would be over it, his broken heart would be healed even the tiniest bit, but now that winter was fast approaching, he had to accept the fact that it would not. Instead of nagging at Geralt that he was getting so cold, that he needed the Witcher’s body warmth -  _ ‘I am a mutant, my skin is cold,’  _ Jaskier could hear the words as if Geralt was standing next to him - he was camping in a forest alone, with nothing but his thoughts to distract him from the biting cold and his chattering teeth. Tomorrow, he would be in Oxenfurt. Tomorrow, he would be surrounded by hundreds of people, welcomed warmly and, hopefully, offered a teaching position, like the university had done every time he travelled through town. Where he had always kindly refused, he would, this time, graciously accept. Jaskier had prepared his excuses well: he would tell them he was too old to travel the road, he would speak of the ‘importance of giving way for a new generation’, he would complain about his knees hurting if he walked too much. And then, maybe, hopefully, nobody would question that he was not following the white-haired Witcher anymore. And if they begged him to play… If they begged him to play, he would refuse. He would, Jaskier had decided, claim he was rheumatic. State that playing hurt. It would give an excuse for his sombre state, for his tears if he did play, for his choice to leave the Path he had always spoken so fondly of. Jaskier the Traveling Bard, the moment he entered Oxenfurt, would cease to exist, replaced by Professor Pankratz.

But that wouldn’t be until he entered the city. So now, in the dark loneliness of the forest, Jaskier grabbed his lute and played.

_ My lute awake performe the last _

_ Labour that thou and I shall waste: _

_ And end that I have now begonne: _

_ And when this song is song and past: _

_ My lute be styll for I have done. _

Jaskier remembered how his parents had disapproved of his career path. They had been elated when he had announced he wanted to go to Oxenfurt, but this happiness was short-lived once they had learned that their son was not planning on studying business, or politics, or some sort of scientific program. Wanting to study the seven liberal arts had caused multiple huge fights. Most of them were now, so many years later, a vague, negative blur in his mind, but he remembered one thing vividly. During one of the final fights he had had with his parents before they allowed him to go, he had stood in a windowsill on the third floor, holding tight but hovering one foot over the empty air below, yelling that he ‘would rather DIE than give up music’. And now, as he played, he knew that giving it up would cause his death as well. He breathed out a small laugh. Die of heartbreak, a marvellously poetic way to go. How else was he expecting to die? Old, surrounded by friends and family? Children and grandchildren around his bed as he used his last words to say something wise? No, that had never been an option. He would cease playing and die, as he once, so long ago, when he lived in happier times, had joked: a broken-hearted man.

_ As to be heard where eare is none: _

_ As lead to grave in marble stone: _

_ My song may pearse her hart as sone. _

_ Should we then sigh? or singe, or mone? _

_ No, no, my lute for I have done. _

He didn’t understand where he had gone wrong. Jaskier considered himself quite a good judge of character, and he knew that this was not just one of the self-aggrandising statements he often made. His ability to read others, mirror them and appease their needs was the exact reason he had become so well-know, so well-liked, the ‘skilled negotiator’ and ‘stirring orator’ that had been welcomed by courts around the Continent with open arms. Sure, musical talent was important, but any successful bard’s  _ true  _ strength was his ability to appease in all senses of the word. So where had he gone wrong? What had happened? Had he truly not been able to correctly judge the nature of his and Geralt’s relationship? He knew, of course he knew, that Geralt could never see Jaskier as Jaskier saw him. It was abundantly clear that their friendship was just that, a friendship. There would be no hope for anything other than that. Yet, Jaskier had been pretty confident in calling Geralt a friend. Sure, the Witcher denied it with each passing breath, but Jaskier knew that Geralt knew that all those denials were lies, attempts to not get attached to someone mortal, no matter the fact that Jaskier’s half-elf parentage meant he would still live twice as long as the average human. Twice as long was nothing,  _ nothing  _ compared to the eternity a quick Witcher could live. So Jaskier hadn’t pushed. Sure, he had joked, on occasion, but never too much. Never to the point where it made Geralt uncomfortable. Their friendship was an unspoken thing, and that was fine. So what had happened for that to change? Jaskier briefly stopped playing to wipe the tears from his cheeks. Pathetic.  _ If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands.  _ What had he done to deserve such a death-wish? Jaskier knew he had a tendency to be a bit too much, too bright, too happy, too loud. Yet still, did he deserve this fate?

_ The rockes do not so cruelly _

_ Repulse the waves continually, _

_ As he my sute and affection: _

_ So that I am past remedy, _

_ Wherby my lute and I have done. _

Jaskier turned to add more wood to the fire. Next to the small stack of wood he had gathered, a tiny violet flower bloomed. He reached out, picking it from the dirt and turning it around between his fingers. Violet. Yennefer.  _ The Wish.  _ He had stumbled across the sorceress a month after The Mountain and, instead of cursing him, or killing him, or laughing at his pathetic state, she had bought them both tremendous amounts of ale and they had spent the night - bonding? Yes, that was the only appropriate word for it, no matter how weird it sounded. It turned out that Geralt had not only ruined his relationship with Jaskier that day. He had also managed to make an enemy of the most powerful person on the entire Continent. Jaskier had been appalled when Yennefer, in a soft voice, had shared what had happened when Geralt had found the djinn. Jaskier himself could remember little of it, and now he wished he could still live in that blissful ignorance. The knowledge that Yennefer saved him was awful enough on its own, but learning about the wish made Jaskier want to vomit. Sure, he was an ‘unparalleled lover’, but he always,  _ always  _ made sure he had the full, complete and enthusiastic consent of his partner before undertaking anything. What Geralt had done was cruel, opportunistic and shameful. And, although he never thought he would say the words, Yennefer deserved better. 

_ Proude of the spoile that thou hast gotte _

_ Of simple hartes through loves shot: _

_ By whom unkinde thou hast them wonne, _

_ Thinke not he hath his bow forgot, _

_ Although my lute and I have done. _

It had turned out that Jaskier had not just ‘stumbled across’ Yennefer. Instead, she had sought him out. The next morning, after some handy magic spared him from nursing the worst hangover of his life, Yennefer had revealed her plan of vengeance. As the woman spoke, Jaskier made several mental notes to never ever cross her. Still, he had refused. He understood the desire for vengeance, for payment, for retribution but, Jaskier had told Yennefer, Geralt had taken enough of his life. He didn’t want to spend more time chasing the white-haired Witcher. Besides, without them, how many friends did the man have left? Letting him rot in his loneliness was enough of a punishment. Yennefer had disagreed, of course she had. But she had left him with a ring. Turning the blue stone twice would signal that he had changed his mind, that he wanted to take revenge anyway. Turning it thrice would alert Yennefer that he was in great danger. Turning it once would signify he was thinking of her. Turning the stone once, he turned back to his lute and continued to play.

_ Vengeaunce shall fall on thy disdaine _

_ That makest but game on earnest payne. _

_ Thinke not alone under the sunne _

_ Unquit to cause thy lovers plaine: _

_ Although my lute and I have done _

As Jaskier played, another memory forced its way up to the forefront of his mind. It had been at the beginning of their travels, sitting next to a campfire similar to this whilst discussing Geralt’s newest contract.

‘What happens if you don’t manage to kill it this time?’ Jaskier, in his youthful innocence, had asked. 

‘I die.’ The Witcher had said it as if it were the most normal thing in the world. 

‘And when does it end? All this fighting and travelling? When are you done?’

‘When I die.’ 

‘Don’t you want to settle down? Maybe somewhere on the seaside? Retire? Find a nice cottage?’ 

‘Witchers don’t retire,’ Geralt had grunted, with a tone that made it clear that this was the end of the conversation. 

Later, Jaskier had often seen the exhaustion on Geralt’s face. The man might have thought he hid his emotions well, but the opposite was true. He had seen him glance at old, retired couples. He had seen the mental exhaustion as the Alderman tried to find loopholes to pay him less. He had seen the longing, aching, yearning that Geralt never truly allowed himself to admit he had. So, when Geralt had come down from the mountain with a clear look of defeat, Jaskier had extended him a metaphorical hand.

‘We could head to the coast. Get away for a while.’ 

But instead of a nod, or of Geralt’s characteristical silence, he had been met with those words. That deathwish.  _ Take you off my hands _ . And here Jaskier was, away from the Witcher who would, apparently, rather have him dead than alive. And some bitter part of him hoped that Geralt  _ would  _ make his way to the coast,  _ would  _ get away for a while, and would, finally, realise that Jaskier had been right. But by then it would be too late, and maybe,  _ maybe,  _ some vengeful part of him whispered, Geralt would feel even a fraction of the hurt Jaskier felt now. 

_ May chance thee lie withered and olde, _

_ In winter nightes that are so colde, _

_ Playning in vain unto the mone: _

_ Thy wishes then dare not be tolde. _

_ Care then who list, for I have done. _

Jaskier knew the idea of Geralt retiring was laughable, of course he did. A Witcher did not retire. He lived on, fought monsters, got slow and died. Most likely somewhere in a muddy swamp, slowly and painfully bleeding out as his mutations tried their best to heal him, but failing to do so. Probably whilst being eaten by a kikimore or something equally awful. In those last hours, would Geralt think of him? Of Yennefer? Of the child surprise he had left behind, he had never visited? Or would he, by then, have completely forgotten about any of them. Were they all just a breeze in the wind, a single grain of sand in the desert of Geralt’s life? A soft buzz on his finger signalling that Yennefer, too, thought of him, removed him from those thoughts. No, it could not be. Jaskier had to have meant something. Geralt had allowed him to travel with him for two decades, that must have accounted for something, right? Maybe, just maybe, Geralt’s last thoughts would be of him. Maybe he would regret his behaviour, and maybe, when they both arrived at Melitele’s Gates, they would be reunited at last, and all would be well.

_ And the may chance thee to repent _

_ The time that thou hast lost and spent _

_ To cause thy lovers sigh and swowne. _

_ Then shalt thou know beauty but lent _

_ And wish and want as I have done. _

Jaskier suppressed a yawn and, after adding a bit more wood to the fire so it would burn through the night and checking that the fire would not spread, leaned back against the tree behind him. He would need his energy tomorrow to make it to Oxenfurt before the city gates closed. He carefully placed his lute next to him, softly humming to give his voice a proper cooling down. ‘This is it, my sweet,’ he whispered softly in-between hums. ‘No more carefree playing for you.’ He did not even bother to wipe away the tears from his cheeks. Tomorrow, Jaskier the Bard would become Professor Julian Pankratz. Tomorrow, he would have to go back to the days where he had to hide his playing from the world, finding spaces where nobody could see his fingers touch the strings as if they had found their home. So, in a sombre, soft tone, Jaskier sang the final verse of his song acapella, heard only by the insects on the ground and the grey owl in the tree high above him.

_ Now cease my lute this is the last _

_ Labour that thou and I shall wast, _

_ And ended is that we begonne. _

_ Now is this song both song and past, _

_ My lute be still for I have done.  _

**Author's Note:**

> The Lover Complayneth The Unkindnes of His Love - Wyatt
> 
> My lute awake performe the last  
> Labour that thou and I shall waste:  
> And end that I have now begonne:  
> And when this song is song and past:  
> My lute be styll for I have done.
> 
> As to be heard where eare is none:  
> As lead to grave in marble stone:  
> My song may pearse her hart as sone.  
> Should we then sigh? or singe, or mone?  
> No, no, my lute for I have done.
> 
> The rockes do not so cruelly  
> Repulse the waves continually,  
> As she my sute and affection:  
> So that I am past remedy,  
> Wherby my lute and I have done.
> 
> Proude of the spoile that thou hast gotte  
> Of simple hartes through loves shot:  
> By whom unkinde thou hast them wonne,  
> Thinke not he hath his bow forgot,  
> Although my lute and I have done.
> 
> Vengeaunce shall fall on thy disdaine  
> That makest but game on earnest payne.  
> Thinke not alone under the sunne  
> Unquit to cause thy lovers plaine:  
> Although my lute and I have done.
> 
> May chance thee lie withered and olde,  
> In winter nightes that are so colde,  
> Playning in vain unto the mone:  
> Thy wishes then dare not be tolde.  
> Care then who list, for I have done.
> 
> And the may chance thee to repent  
> The time that thou hast lost and spent  
> To cause thy lovers sigh and swowne.  
> Then shalt thou know beauty but lent  
> And wish and want as I have done.
> 
> Now cease my lute this is the last  
> Labour that thou and I shall wast,  
> And ended is that we begonne.  
> Now is this song both song and past,  
> My lute be still for I have done.


End file.
